The marsh shifted behind them like a sore muscle. No matter how far they walked from the vault, the air clung to their skin like it hadn't let go. Nyxia's knuckles stayed white on the grip of her dagger the entire hike back up the ridge. She didn't speak. Neither did the others.
There were no birds. No insects. Just wet earth and the creak of old roots bending under their boots.
Hours passed.
When they finally reached level ground, Loque stiffened again—ears back, fur rising along his spine. He didn't growl this time.
He whimpered.
Nyxia dropped to one knee beside him, running a hand along his side. "What is it?"
Loque's nose pointed forward—toward a grove up ahead. The trees were younger here, thinner, but their trunks grew too close together, their canopies tangled like tangled fingers.
Zhurong glanced toward the sky. "That's the edge of the forest, isn't it? We're close to the outer line again."
"No," Nyxia said. "That's something else."
Boo raised her pistol but kept it low. "Why does this place feel wrong in a new way?"
They crept forward. Carefully. Each of them straining to listen beyond the thudding of their own hearts.
Then they heard it.
Voices.
Not chanting. Not howling. Talking. Conversational. Almost normal.
Boo frowned. "Please tell me I'm not losing my mind."
"No more than usual," Zhurong muttered, adjusting the strap on his satchel.
They reached the grove's edge and crouched behind a cluster of briars. Beyond it stood a makeshift camp—rough tents, a burned-out firepit, gear strewn like it had been dropped mid-meal. A small pot sat overturned next to a tin plate still holding dried meat.
Empty.
"Who the hell camps out here?" Boo asked.
Zhurong pointed at the stone circle around the fire. "Those aren't just cooking stones. Look."
Runes. Faint. Carved into the inner curve of each rock, the pattern intentional and old.
Nyxia's voice was low. "Veil-marked."
"More of them?" Boo said, glancing around. "How many are we talking about?"
Nyxia stepped into the camp. The hair on her arms prickled immediately. "No one's been here in days."
Then the voices came again—closer. Loud. Right next to them.
But still, the camp was empty.
Zhurong held up his hand. "It's not sound. It's residue. Psychic memory. This place is soaked in it."
Boo scowled. "I liked it better when things just tried to stab us."
Then Nyxia found the journal.
Half-buried in the mud beneath a collapsed bedroll. She brushed it clean and opened it.
The pages were water-warped and smudged with soot, but a few entries remained legible. The handwriting was frantic, barely controlled. A different voice echoed in each paragraph. Different people. Or the same one at different stages of unraveling.
Day 3: The blooms only grow where the others fell. I think they show us what we did wrong.
Day 7: She came again in my dreams. I thought it was the Veil pretending to be her. But I don't think the Veil lies. It doesn't need to.
Day 10: I saw Nyxia. She's close now. Closer than any of us ever were.
Nyxia's breath caught. She closed the book sharply.
Boo raised an eyebrow. "Did that just say your name again?"
Nyxia nodded. "Someone knew I was coming. Maybe even tried to stop me."
Zhurong looked around. "Or tried to wait for you. Either way, they didn't last."
They didn't take anything from the camp. They just moved on.
As they exited the grove, the trail split—two paths ahead. One sloped upward toward a high bluff. The other twisted downward into thick, matted trees darkened by age and swamp steam.
A carved symbol sat between the two paths.
A spiral flower, etched into a black stone. But this time, the spiral was split down the middle. Two halves curling away from each other like jaws.
A choice.
Boo scowled. "Well. That's not ominous."
Nyxia looked to the sky. The clouds above weren't moving anymore.
"We're getting close," she said.
"To what?" Zhurong asked.
Nyxia turned to them. "To the point where there's no coming back."
They stood in silence, the split in the road yawning in front of them like a challenge.
Loque paced forward.
And sat.
Facing the lower path.
"I guess that's a vote," Boo muttered.
Nyxia looked at the flower again. Its etched petals gleamed faintly in the mistlight.
Whatever lay ahead, it wasn't just another memory.
It was something real.
And it was waiting.